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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28647084">Greet the Dawn</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecondsmile/pseuds/thesecondsmile'>thesecondsmile</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Avengers Movie Night, Avengers as family, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Catatonia, Depressed Bucky Barnes, Depression, Hurt Bucky Barnes, M/M, Mental Health Issues, POV Bucky Barnes, POV Steve Rogers, Recovery, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, learning to be a person</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 13:20:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,780</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28647084</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecondsmile/pseuds/thesecondsmile</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When Steve finds him, Bucky doesn't speak.  Seventy years of torture has led to an eternity of silence.</p><p>Post-CA: TWS, Bucky struggles to be more than the nothing he was made into.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James "Bucky" Barnes &amp; Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes &amp; Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers &amp; Sam Wilson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>133</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Sinking Man</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>All he can do is what he has to do.</p><p>Fic title taken from 'Does Your Heart Break?' by The Brilliance, chapter title taken from 'Sinking Man' by Of Monsters and Men.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He wakes to an empty room. He stares straight ahead for what could be any length of time, only measurable by the steady breaths the ventilator takes for him, if he deigned to count them. He does not. Numbers mean nothing to him, when time itself is just another pointless way to understand the great tragedy that makes up what he is. Does it matter how long he’s been like this, how long he was with HYDRA for, how long he will be like this? Does it matter that he’s no longer with HYDRA when everything has already been done to him? When one knows how it feels to be nothing, when one has been made into nothing, he thinks, it doesn’t really matter that he could be something again. He will never fill the space that James Buchanan Barnes took up.</p><p><em>Dutiful son. Loving brother. Charming boy. Best friend. Brave soldier.</em> James Buchanan Barnes was all of these and more. ‘The coffin is too large for the grave’, is what they would say. How do you bury someone who was something to so many people, immortalised in a nation’s memory as the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country, loyal sidekick to Captain American, who was larger than life? He knows that no one, least of all Steve, can truly comprehend what he has become, which is why they refuse to let this image of a hero go.</p><p>But he is not Bucky Barnes, he is an empty shell of something that used to be a man. He is all carved out, and nothing they try to put inside him will stay. He has seen his graves in the cold steel of Zola’s table, the cool blood-drenched earth stretching endlessly under the sound of guns, the freezing serenity of the cryo tube, but each time, he is pulled up and not granted rest. (“Buck, quick, we gotta get out of here!” / “Come on, I’ll get you to Morita and you’ll be fine, you’re not going to die here James Buchanan Barnes!” / “Asset, you have a mission.”) He has not wanted anything for decades, but he thinks that he wishes they would just let him go.</p><p> </p><p>*****</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Please, Bucky,” Steve moans beside him, gripping his arm tight as if that alone could anchor him, prevent him from falling further away. “I can’t do this without you again.”</p><p>He knows this is true, sees the frantic yearning in Steve clawing out at him, begging for some spark of Bucky, his friend, a person to be there, but he doesn’t have the energy in him to care. It shreds at him, the shards of grief rippling through the echo of the man that used to be there, but even razor sharp talons can make no headway in something as insubstantial as clouds and Bucky is floating. He stares into clear blue eyes swollen with tears, another man with the weight of the world digging into his trembling shoulders and he thinks he should be feeling something, but his eyes are blank.</p><p>“Aren’t you angry? Don’t you want to rip the bastards who did this to you apart? Aren’t you curious? Don’t you want to know where you are, what’s going to happen to you? God Bucky, aren’t you happy to see me? Don’t you feel anything at all?”</p><p>Steve looks almost manic in his desperation, but Bucky, the person he is addressing is long gone. All that remains is him, and he is nothing. James Buchanan Barnes, son to George and Winnifred Barnes, brother to Rebecca and Gracie Barnes, born in Shelby, Indiana, 10 March 1917, raised in Brooklyn, New York. Barnes, James Buchanan, Sergeant, 32557038, sniper for the Howling Commandos. The Winter Soldier, Asset, the Fist of HYDRA. He is all of these people and no one at once. He is a stranger in his skin.</p><p>Steve is sobbing now, great big gasps that shake his entire body and Bucky just lies there. He doesn’t think he can cry anymore.</p><p>“I’m begging you pal. I need you to keep trying, to keep fighting. Things will be better, I promise you. I just need you to let me help.” He hears the emotion in Steve’s voice. A voice rises in him faintly. <em>Don’t you know Stevie? I would have done anything for you.</em> But that was a long time ago and he is so very tired now.</p><p>Seventy years of torture would do that to you. He knows that anything would be more comfortable than life under HYDRA, that anyone would be kinder than handlers and scientists. He knows that he might even be able to feel the happiness and childlike joy that he once held carelessly running down the streets of Brooklyn with Steve. He knows that life would be better.</p><p>But he also knows that seventy years of torture do not go away. Hundreds of deaths at his hands and ghosts at his back will not disappear. Time lost will not come back. He cannot come back from this. He sees the days, months, years stretching ahead of him and something in him mourns.</p><p>He feels split open and torn apart, but empty and sinking. He could almost laugh. For some reason, Steve still wants this. He fully believes that Steve wants this broken creature and that if he would just suffer a little longer, it would make Steve very happy.</p><p>For once, he thinks, for once, don’t I deserve to be selfish?</p><p> </p><p>*****</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He sleeps. Or he doesn't.</p><p> </p><p>*****</p><p> </p><p>He has never been particularly religious, but anyone who has stared at the inky abyss of death before has a certain spirituality. Growing up in the Great Depression where rainwater and stolen bread were the only things to fill sunken cheeks of his sisters and let their empty eyes see another day, listening for the fifth time to the priest delivering the last rites for a frail boy with birdcage ribs and hummingbird lungs whose heart was too much for nature to craft a vessel for, staring down the barrel of a gun and praying he manages to shoot first. He wonders if he has a soul.</p><p>He thinks of his sisters, with their bright eyes, cherub cheeks and wide gap-toothed smiles. <em>I love you Bucky, you’re the bestest brother ever!</em></p><p>He thinks of Steve, his fierce devotion to protect, the sun in his laughter, the strength in his bones. <em>I’m with you till the end of the line.</em></p><p>He thinks of the young men sent off to die, shaking hands clutching rifles too big for their bodies with a determination to fight in a war too hard for them to bear. <em>It is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country.</em></p><p>He tries to think of himself and sees missions targets betrayal who the hell is bucky. He thinks if he ever had a soul, it was whittled away along with any goodness that he ever had, but he hopes the devil will have mercy on him and take him away anyway.</p><p> </p><p>*****</p><p> </p><p>It is a new day and he is still here.  He has been here ever since he was taken over from HYDRA and transferred to Avengers custody.  He has not been given any orders and without any compulsion to act, he does not.  He does not move, does not eat, does not speak.  Distantly, he recalls the line to the haunting old folk song hollow men whose bodies made it back from the Great War sang.  “<em> Old soldiers never die, they just fade away…” </em></p><p> </p><p>He is the oldest soldier aliv— no, that honour is reserved for someone who is actually a person.  He is the oldest soldier with a heart that still beats.  Not with any life, but as a mechanical pump, the central point of the machine that has become the man.  He feels so tired that he is certain that his body must be slowing down, that for the next breaths his lungs will increasingly feel like fragile, tissue-thin balloons pushing against concrete ribs shackling and crushing them, but against at odds, they continue to inflate. </p><p> </p><p>He is not allowed to die, too much of a monster, too <em> inhuman </em> to get the death penalty.  He is lower than an animal even, too much of a beast to deserve to be put down.  He is a machine with only useless parts, not worth the effort to scavenge anything that can be made anew.  He knows his sins.  There is nothing that can be done to atone.  He knows his punishment, and so he lies there.  Waiting.  They feed him through an IV in his arm, Steve visits and tries to speak to him, they try to change the scenery around him.  He is as empty as ever.  He has been fading for almost a century but he knows it will be ages more before he finally goes.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>*****</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Time passes. Or at least he thinks it does. Thinks the shadows that passed in front of his eyes are tricks of the light rather than tricks of the mind, the sound of footsteps and low murmurs outside his room from the hospital staff packing for the day and not just memories of scientists leaving the steely labs for their homes.</p><p>He doesn’t know. He doesn’t think he cares. What’s an extra day, week, or month even in relation to eternity? Nothing. He’s had seventy years to learn that. This is the real torment, leaving him for periods on end that blend and melt into each other with no sign of stopping. At least when HYDRA put him in cryo, the ice gave him a peaceful sort of slumber in the nothingness. Here, he is subject to the thoughts of a ghost that haunts him yet cannot possess him to make this empty body move. He is the broken toy soldier left in a glass case for others to come clucking by, reminiscing with pity in their eyes about the days when he was useful. This is what happens when one has the luxury and space to display their broken goods. HYDRA’s strict pragmatism would at least have allowed him to be decommissioned properly and not take up space.</p><p>If this is to be eternity, he wants to spend it in as little pain as possible. To escape from a world of suffering, even if for just a temporary respite, he closes his eyes.  He hears Steve’s shuddering breaths and falls back asleep to the rhythm of sobs.</p><p> </p><p>*****</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Blearily he fades into consciousness, which merely grants him a little more awareness than the blankness of sleep, or whatever other restless state he was in.  Sliding across the spectrum of catatonia is fairly uneventful, he muses. </p><p> </p><p>As the world comes into focus, he notes a presence holding vigil in the chair next to his bed.  He doesn’t need to see the tips of greasy blond hair, the only shock of colour in this dull existence, to know who it is.  There is only one person who enjoys seeing him like this enough to come.  </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Plink.  Plink. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>With his enhanced hearing he catches the sound of tears landing on the railing of his bed that Steve is bracing his arms against.  The old Bucky Barnes would have instinctively reached out with a crooked grin to wipe those tears away, drawling in that charming Brooklyn accent of his.  “<em> Aw Stevie, don’t cry.  Can’t muck up such a pretty face with tears.  Come on punk, I’ll treat you to a milkshake at Sally’s and you can tell me all about the mook whose face I need to beat in.”  </em>But that Bucky is long gone and all that remains of this foggy memory of years past is a body that has the same face lying motionless in a hospital bed.  </p><p> </p><p>From the corner of his glassy eyes he sees Steve stop at the doorway, fists clenched and chest heaving in the way Bucky knows means that he is struggling not to break down while coming up with the words to say. Steve lingers for a few more silent moments, his hand coming up to brace the door frame. He turns his head just enough for his voice to carry and Bucky can see his downturned face trying to hide the tears he knows are there. He speaks in a quiet voice, one that would make Bucky strain to grasp the words if not for the silence of the room.</p><p> </p><p>“I hope you’re trying, Buck. I really hope there’s something still in there.”</p><p> </p><p>He tries to look in himself to find that. He sees nothing and his chest aches with the weight of existing. He closes his eyes as he hears Steve leave.</p><p> </p><p>As he slips off, distantly, he thinks something in him hopes the same.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This is my very first work and so I'm not very certain if it's any good, but I just wanted to share my take on a Bucky that deals with the horrific experience that has effectively been a lifetime for him, and once he breaks out of his conditioning, doesn't respond to it with anger, by embracing his new life or explosive self-destruction behaviour, but with a catatonia stemming from crippling depression.  This mostly draws on my own experiences, because every time I think seriously about being in Bucky's shoes, I am convinced that he is the person who has suffered the most in the world and I can't imagine how hard it would be to carry on.  It makes me feel so hopeless for him because even though I see in so many wonderful fics here a viable path for recovery, I can't imagine how one would even get on that trajectory and want to recover instead of killing themselves.  I didn't feel like going down that route yet (though it's definitely something I'm interested in exploring because ...that seems like what I would do in his case but also because there is a surprising lack of suicidal bucky in this fandom!)  and my current mood is more the sort of sinking path that depression takes you on.</p><p>This is somewhat rambly and I can't believe I'm actually posting something I wrote because I've basically been a long-time lurker on this site (legitimately did not create an account until a few days ago because of anxiety about this) and this fandom so this was kind of impulsively written in an afternoon but I hope that somehow it might be something others enjoy?  And I will never be one of the greats of this fandom (check out my massive bookmarks list that I am slowly working on as I track down all the fics I love love love since I finally can bookmark them) but I hope I can at least allow someone to enjoy the same feels and squeals that some other fic authors have given me!  Kudos and comments and bookmarks etc appreciated :&gt;  though I fully understand if you just want to lurk which is what I did for years haha :b</p><p>I'm not very sure if I'm going to update this because as mentioned, this is the first thing I've ever written!  and I'm not that comfortable writing but if inspiration hits and people like it maybe I will start writing down the dreams and vague thoughts I have whenever I'm preoccupied with this ^-^</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. I stood there on a chair and watched you pray</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Steve grapples with loss.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Chapter title taken from 'Hospital Vespers' by The Weakerthans, which I feel really encapsulates the sort of desperate but fading hope that Steve would feel watching Bucky wither away.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>After he woke from the ice, things were different for Steve.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Everything was bigger, brighter, more </span>
  <em>
    <span>luxuriant</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Gone was the flaking paint lining the weathered buildings of Vinegar Hill, the penny candy little slippery hands would try to snatch, the crooning sounds of smooth jazz playing on old record players from the apartment next door.  There were none of the flying cars Howard had promised, but more cutting to Steve, there was also none of the character that had seeped into every chipped brick and worn out boot of the Brooklyn he had known.  Even with the wonders that technology had brought, he couldn’t see any magic in the world around him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He imagined that if Bucky were here, he would probably have cuffed Steve on the head, shaking his head as he marvelled at the shiny new devices and seamless machine processes.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>“What are you talking about, the future is incredible!  Of course a punk like you wouldn’t be able to appreciate genius,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he would have shot out, dragging Steve to go poke at some strange gadget.  Then again, Bucky had always been the one secretly interested in science fiction, raving about the theoretical concepts behind the latest comic book he had filched from one of the guys at the docks.  Steve would just hum absent-mindedly, letting Bucky’s excited voice wash over him as he puzzled out how to sketch the furled banner of their local bodega. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Bucky wasn’t here, so Steve hunkered down in a cold-backed chair in a SHIELD conference room, trying to figure out the internet from the thick data packet they had given him.  He would just have to explore the future for the both of them by himself.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>*****</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Bucky had tried to patch up the holes in the crumbling concrete walls of their apartment with duct tape and scraps of tarp scavenged from the docks where he worked, but only succeeded in keeping the wind out </span>
  <em>
    <span>some</span>
  </em>
  <span> of the time, such that Steve’s frail form would still shiver from the cold draughts that entered their room.  Bucky had quirked a crooked grin at him, waggling his eyebrows in that dramatic way that never failed to make him laugh. </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Sorry ‘bout that Stevie, looks like that’s the best I can do with this.  Don’t worry though, I’ll just have to keep ya warm by snuggling extra close tonight”, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he had said with a wink, and Steve had lunged at him jokingly in an attempt to wrestle him to the ground.  He had pretended to puff up in righteous indignation, but that night, if he snuggled a little more closely into Bucky’s body which was radiating heat, neither of them said anything about it.  Steve had burrowed in even more, letting out a contented sigh and Bucky had just wrapped one strong arm, corded in muscle by years of lifting crates at the shipyard for a few quarters, around Steve in a gesture that was familiar to both.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Now, in the sleek minimalist apartment SHIELD had furnished for him, complete with state-of-the-art centralised heating under the expensive building contract, it somehow felt colder than ever.  As if any warmth had been sucked out of the room without Bucky there.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Even though he was larger than he had ever imagined in the days before the serum, where a strong wind could have knocked him over, or at least given him a good bout of pneumonia that would have kept him in bed for weeks with Bucky fussing over him with canned soup heated over their flickering gas stove, he felt so small alone in the empty apartment.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Looking around at the pristine furniture and modern appliances, he sighed, bracing his head  against the cool steel of the refrigerator, trying to get over the ache of pain that pulsed through his chest.  It would do no good to think of the days of the past, as happy and streaked with the careless joy that only children in a simpler time could feel.  All of that was gone the moment Bucky had left for the front with his crumpled papers shoved into a back pocket by a clenched fist, when he had seen the not-quite-there smile in Bucky’s eyes pledging to follow him into the jaws of death after finding him on Zola’s table, when he had failed his best friend, the best man he knew, the only man he had loved and let him plummet to a miserable death.  In a way, Steve had fallen with him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Steve couldn’t go.  The world still needed him -- Captain America, the perfect soldier, the brave hero that would stand between them and whatever next evil came calling.  Personally, he didn’t think that he was that hero, and hoped that no one could see the frozen nature of the smile that never truly came off the ice when reporters and politicians thanked him for his service, the white-knuckled grip around the straps of his newly varnished shield.  How could anyone believe that he would save them if he couldn’t even have the six of the one person that had stayed with him his entire life?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When his mother had succumbed to the tuberculosis so rampant in the ward she worked in trying to scrape enough to buy his medicines, it was Bucky who stood behind him at the funeral, firm and unyielding as a rock, as he tried to stop himself from breaking down.  Bucky was the force of nature that came blustering into his apartment with his dad’s old suitcase, declaring that he was moving in and </span>
  <em>
    <span>You better make sure you don’t hog the covers all the time pal!</span>
  </em>
  <span>  Bucky was what pushed him to be strong enough to push through the farcical dancing monkey in star-spangled tights that they had seen him as, to be the reckless 8 year old standing up to bullies in a dirty Brooklyn alleyway that had met the confident and self-assured 9 year old who decided to stick with him through everything.  It wasn’t patriotism or bravery that prompted him to stage a one-man rescue mission to liberate 400 men from Azzano, it was the scared voice in him that could only repeat </span>
  <em>
    <span>“I can’t do this without you” </span>
  </em>
  <span>as he charged through the dark hallways lit by surgical underground lights, footsteps thudding with his heart that was screaming </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bucky!</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he had come across the scarred body of his best friend, those familiar blue eyes staring at the ceiling and a deadened voice droning out his ID number, the sheer that poured through him threatened to knock him off his feet.  He stumbled over to that damned table and grasped Bucky’s clammy hands, and in that moment, he breathed out and sent a little prayer to thank some nameless deity.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>They would be okay. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Looking over at Bucky smoking a cigarette that he had won off Dugan, howling with laughter at a story Gabe was telling over their small fire with sweeping gestures, he couldn’t help but grin widely.  It was the middle of winter in the forests of Poland, miserable treks through knee deep snow carrying pounds of equipment while they hunted Nazis hiding in their strongholds scattered across Europe, but with the band of Howling Commandos all valiantly marching together, Steve was happy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In his darkest moments, he had never been alone.  Ever since that small boy with a spirit too big for his bones had scowled up into those stormy blue eyes, grounding out an indignant </span>
  <em>
    <span>“I had them on the ropes!”</span>
  </em>
  <span>, his life had been changed.  Even when he had nothing, he had Bucky. </span>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But when he saw Bucky’s falling body from that blasted train, the screaming winds whipping at his face matching the tortured howls he was sure he was making, it was like time had stopped for him.  Bucky’s arm had extended towards him as his own reached desperately for a hand he would never grasp again, in a cruel mimicry of the easy way they would reach out to slot their fingers together back in Brooklyn.  He would never forget the way those eyes looked when Bucky fell.  Those eyes that he had spent hours tracing, feathering dark lashes on with his worn charcoal pencil in the quiet of their apartment, that icy blue that he had caught himself staring at for ages on end once the serum granted him the ability to see colour.  He had been captivated by their depth as he tried to learn this part of his friend that he had never before had the privilege of seeing.  Perhaps he should have spent more time looking at the strained quality of Bucky’s smile, the little tremors that would come even when it was warm out, the furrow in his brow when he thought no one was looking at spoke of a haunted man.  Still, it’s not as if any of that mattered when Steve would never see that face again, never get to hear the voice that would soothe him back to sleep after a fitful, fevered rest, never again hold the man who had held him together all those years.  When he saw Bucky fall, he started drowning.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And when he woke up from the ice, he wasn’t sure if he had ever stopped. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>*****</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Meeting Sam was a balm he didn’t know how much he needed.  It wasn’t nearly enough to fill the gaping chasm that Bucky’s absence had punched in him, but it was a bandage that stretched over one of the holes that loneliness had grown.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When there wasn’t a big bad to fight, life as Captain America was fairly uneventful.  He spent a few weeks reading up on all the history he had missed, trying to grasp the strange new world he had been dropped in.  The internet was a strange place with so much information that he wasn’t sure that he liked.  Certainly, it was easy to get information once he figured out how to work Google, but the impersonal way that everyone was so removed from each other grated at him.  His brand new StarkPhone was tucked neatly in a corner of the living room table in case someone contacted him.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Running out into the blinding lights of Times Square hadn’t been the best introduction to the environment of the 2014, and now that he had had time to explore the neighbourhood by himself, he found comfort in the small corner shops still tucked away in hidden roads.  He tried to speak to the shop owners while purchasing little fiddly items whose prices he tried not to gape at (inflation was a concept he had tried to grapple with but eventually just gave up on and used the shiny new notes SHIELD provided him), but it seemed that everyone was either too in awe of his imposing frame or just as uncomfortable with his new body as he was.  Ducking his head down to hide his blush, he quickly mumbled a thanks and retreated home.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The few SHIELD agents tailing him didn’t make for much good company either.  Most trailed him from too far away that there was no way he could engage them in conversation and the others just stared blankly at him when he tried to get some more personal information from them.  He missed the easy way he used to be able to just toss a line at Bucky about anything mundane, from a new drawing he had completed, Mrs Tralow down the hall and her broken window, comments about their dinner of potatoes and cabbage.  Sometimes he caught himself automatically looking over to make a quick quip to Bucky only to realise that he was by himself and each time it left him gutted.  There was no more comfortable familiarity in this world where everyone he knew was gone and everyone who knew him could get their information from a textbook.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At times, it was like they weren’t even speaking the same language as him.  His brief fight alongside the other Avengers had shaken him from any thought that they might be the new Howling Commandos come to life.  He knew he was the man out of time, and when that first “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Language!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” had slipped out of him, they had gotten the impression that he was the Apple Pie poster boy they had all grown up knowing.  To them, he was the stiff old man all caught up in himself, and they were just so different.  Sure, Bucky had cursed like a sailor and Steve’s time in the army meant that he was no prude about vulgarity, but the sheer crudeness of communication now left something uncomfortable deep in his throat.  He was glad that derogatory comments about </span>
  <em>
    <span>queers</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>dames</span>
  </em>
  <span> were now mostly out of fashion, but whenever he tried to speak to his team, it seemed that he just couldn’t connect with them.  There were so many people around him now, but he was still so alone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Meeting Sam, with his steady presence everytime Steve lapped him on their unofficial daily runs, and his genuine, unafraid way of speaking to Steve let him feel like he was a person again for the first time.  He wasn’t just an icon, just a hero.  For a while, he could be Steve again.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>*****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When the mask fell off, Steve felt a maelstrom of emotions warring in him.  A torrent of </span>
  <em>
    <span>he’s alive you can be with Bucky again </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bucky I’m so sorry I let you fall </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>how could you have left him there Bucky please come back to me </span>
  </em>
  <span>rose in him and something in him unfurled. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he had hung up on Peggy in the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Valkyrie</span>
  </em>
  <span>, for the first time since he lost Bucky, he felt calm.  Even with the pounding of his heart in his chest as the water rose around him, he couldn‘t help but smile through the pain in his chest.  It wasn’t the way he had imagined them spending the rest of their lives, but he was so relieved that he could be with Bucky again.  Those weeks of solitude, even surrounded by his friends and soldiers, had been slowly withering him from the inside out.  He had held up the shield strongly, unwavering in the face of the enemy that he still had a duty to take out, but he couldn’t stop the slow freezing of his body without Bucky there to keep him alive.  It was the most hopeless situation he had been in, but he was at peace. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m coming Bucky.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, staring at that black-masked face and blank eyes watching him plummet from the helicarrier, he thinks that this might be a fitting ending for them.  Together till the end of the line, after which one of them inevitably drops off the edge. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he wakes up for the second time in the hospital, Bucky isn’t there.  He feels the acute sense of loss that he had only felt one time before when he lost his whole world and he cries.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When Bucky fell off the train, Steve was certain he would never see him again.  When Steve fell from the helicarrier, he was sure that he would never see Bucky again.  Looking at Bucky lying motionless in his hospital bed, eyes gazing unseeing ahead, Steve thinks that in the cruelest twist of fate, he still will never see Bucky again.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Surprise surprise, it's me again!  I have officially written more in the past two days than ever before in my life, and I would like to thank everyone who read this story, gave a kudos and left a comment!  That really encouraged me to continue writing and I hope this is a good continuation to a story that I'm becoming quite invested in!  </p><p>I love Bucky whump the most but I also feel that Steve is such a sorrowful and tragic character and the gaping hole that I feel in him was something I wanted to explore here.  I'm not the best at writing Steve because I don't think I really understand the sheer scale of loss that someone can feel because I don't love anyone nearly as dearly and fiercely as I think Steve does, so I hope I've done it justice here.  The rest will likely be about Bucky's recovery, and will of course feature Steve as a support (though not a panacea) for him.</p><p>I've tentatively put the chapter count at 4 because I kind of have sketched out a basic outline to this and I'll probably be finishing this up in the next few days because I'm on a bit of a roll, and it's going to have a happy ending (probably because I would just make myself sad without one :b)</p><p>Once again, thank you so much to everyone for supporting me and I hope you enjoy!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. I'll Fly Away</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Bucky wakes up.  He heals.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Chapter title taken from "I'll Fly Away" by Kortnie Heying.  While I'm not religious, I feel that this image of Bucky's spirit rising up is what I wanted to capture in this chapter and I think this song perfectly grasps that muted joy.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He isn’t sure exactly sure what has changed.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He wakes slowly as usual, but he wakes to a strange warmth on his face.  When he opens his eyes, it’s to a world bathed in sunlight.  Gentle rays filtering in through the opened window, a faint breeze carrying the scent of wildflowers drifting in.  He hasn’t felt the sun for a long time, maybe since he first left Brooklyn.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The war front had been shaded in dark tones, with the acrid press of death a perpetual weight looming over him.  Life then had been coloured by the fear of a young man hardly prepared for the heavy duty demanded of him, and after Azzano, the shadows only grew larger, tracing every step he took.  Once he fell, HYDRA had stripped away any sort of beauty he had ever seen and replaced it with cutting structure.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Order through pain</span>
  </em>
  <span> meant that his world was reduced to the blinding white lights of steely laboratory ceilings and the inky black of cryo’s oblivion, checkered only by the neat spots of red from his missions.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Closing his eyes, he shakes off the memories of a distant and painful past, reminding himself that all that was the past.  Stiff fingers curl ever so slightly into the soft bedding under his, digging into a cotton blanket as if that could ground him in this moment forever.  He breathes in deeply for the first time, focuses on the tickle of his lashes against his cheeks and the feeling of air on his skin.  He sinks deeper into the mattress but for once, feels the pressure against his back that means that he isn’t falling forever.  It is a simple sensation, nothing that he has not been feeling for however long he has been convalescing in that bed for.  Yet it seems somehow ...different.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As if the foggy, blurred edges of this serene morning has brought everything into sharp focus after years of sinking through quicksand.  He </span>
  <em>
    <span>feels</span>
  </em>
  <span> for the first time in a long time.  Machines do not feel warmth but to calibrate temperature.  Weapons do not see sunlight but to calculate how to best remain in the shadows.  He thinks for a moment that he might be more.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He remembers running through a rain-drenched street on a cold dewy morning with the reckless abandon of a child with nothing but the day to think about.  He feels the cold wind sweeping past his cheeks, drawing a bright blush to them as his feet pound on cobbled ground.  It was dark then, the still of the early morning not yet disrupted by the swell of the day as people roused.  It was quiet, if not for the steady beat of his heart that thumped firmly as if to remind him it was there.  Turning sharply into a modest building and climbing up a familiar few flights of muddy stairs, he reached a simple wooden door.  Breathing in the crisp air, he felt it rush through him, lifting his lungs and waking his body as if nature itself had breathed into him.  Smiling widely, he rapped on the wooden frame, bouncing eagerly on the spot in anticipation.  A sleepy golden-haired boy opens the door, blearily rubbing sleep from his tired eyes.  With a great big yawn, he looks up and smiles and Bucky sees sunshine.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He opens his eyes slowly, afraid that the dream might disappear if he moves too quickly and once again he would be left with nothing.  When he glances at the room again, it is still painted in the soft hues of the morning.  Faintly, he hears birdsong in the distance, a tuneless melody that only makes sense in the language of birds.  He blinks again and it is like he has opened his eyes a new man.  He thinks that this might be the first beautiful thing that he has seen in this new body of his.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was once tar in veins struggling to move blood anywhere but out a knife wound, concrete lining eyelids that were mountains to move.  Although he feels the weight of his frame and the solid metal of his arm for once, he feels lighter than ever.  Now, for once, it seems that the world might be awash in something brighter than gray. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He basks in the sunlight, and it feels like forgiveness.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>*****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It takes time for him to move.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Steve comes and visits like normal, and Bucky, the creature, the new animal tries to come alive.  He tries to flicker his eyes anywhere other than straight ahead, to grasp onto a finger and give a reassuring squeeze.  He doesn’t succeed, but he thinks that Steve might still notice.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s talking about the new breakfast place he visited the other day, where they served croissants shaped like a doughnut and doused with icing sugar.  He talks about the flaky layers that each caught a drizzle of sweetness whenever he bit into the pillowy pastry and Bucky can almost taste the warmth of the ovens and the crisp of the fresh bread loaves from the bakery.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m here.  It’s hard but I’m trying.  I don’t know if I can do it or if I want to do it, and I don’t know what I am, but I am here.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As if he senses something is different, Steve cuts his train of thought off with an abrupt stop of his own.  “It’s a really pretty morning today, isn’t it Buck?  Reminds me of the days we would just laze around the apartment, you lounging in the bed dozing off, me trying to sketch the morning with that new set of pencils you got me even though I couldn’t tell red from green back then…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He trails off, a wistfulness coating his tone.  Bucky thinks he might remember days where he would recline across the pillows, in a semi-state of wakefulness, lulled by the sound of pencils scratching across paper.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He turns his head the smallest fraction to catch Steve’s eye and gives a slow, syrupy blink.  It’s not much, but he sees Steve’s eyes fill with tears.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*****</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks Steve must have said something about his new state of awareness, because he suddenly receives many more visitors.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s not entirely sure how he feels about what is essentially an influx of strangers, but with his new state of consciousness, he thinks that he might enjoy the company.  At the very least, he’s glad that Steve isn’t the only one to bear the burden that he is.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His first new face is Sam.  His only memories of the man are from pulling his wings off and kicking him off a height, which he doesn’t think sets the best precedent for their subsequent interactions.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fortunately, Bucky knows about Sam from Steve.  Sam, the man with the wings who was in the army and who now helps talk to scared and broken down people like him and make them feel better.  Bucky knows from what Steve has said, from the hours that Steve has spent next to his bed carrying a conversation with a ghost, that it was Sam that let him feel that he was finally not alone.  Bucky knows loneliness, so he is glad that there was someone there for Steve in the years that he wasn’t. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam speaks in soft, low tones and waits patiently for Bucky to react.  He can’t give much, but he tries to angle his head in the direction of Sam’s voice to show that he is listening.  He knows he doesn’t deserve it, but he desperately wants this man who does not hurt him and tells him that it is okay to take his time to heal.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bucky cannot bring himself to speak still but Sam smiles at him gently.  This is kindness.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>*****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The next person he meets is a doctor.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Hello.  I’m Dr Bruce Banner and I’m the one in charge of your recovery.  It’s very nice to meet you.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bruce is quiet.  The bespectacled man is dressed in a rumpled off-white lab coat and often runs his hands through his hair when he thinks.  He looks everything like the nameless faceless doctors who would poke and prod and cut and watch the Asset scream but is nothing like them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looks carefully at the charts tucked into the pocket at the side of Bucky’s bed, nibbling absent-mindedly on a pen.  The silence in the room with a strange doctor he doesn’t know what to expect from would typically scare Bucky, but he finds that there is something about the man that calms him and leaves him relaxed.  As the doctor peruses several other papers with images of a brain he supposes must be his own, he sits quietly, content to wait patiently.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bruce finally seems to have found what he was looking for and turns to Bucky with a warm smile.  He tells Bucky that there were several lesions in his brain and his body was suffering from severe malnutrition and withdrawal from the cocktail of drugs HYDRA had loaded him with, not to mention to countless scars of torture lacing his skin.  This is the first time Bucky is hearing a report on himself that lays all the details clear beyond “functional” or “efficiency impeded”, that he is aware of at least, but none of it surprises him.  He hums wordlessly in acknowledgement.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If Bruce is discomforted by the seeming nonchalance Bucky has towards the evidence of his trauma, he doesn’t show it.  He talks to Bucky about treatment plans and how Bucky will get healthier, pausing at moments to gauge his reaction.  Bruce speaks with an even tone and takes care to not use medical jargon to ensure that Bucky can understand.  The gesture is somewhat lost on him given that a lifetime of being a soldier has not provided him with the instinct to give input on his own care, but he recognises it for what it is.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to need to take a blood sample from you.  Is that okay?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The question is met with silence.  He’s not used to being asked for permission over his own body and he’s not certain that he has the authority to answer.  Bruce doesn’t rush him though, gives him time to turn the question over in his head.  Slowly, he nods.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shooting another quick grin over at Bucky, Bruce uncaps a needle and moves towards him.  Instinctively, he tenses, but Bruce telegraphs his movements and Bucky melts back into his bed while Bruce quickly injects the needle with practiced hands.  The smallest of pricks later, it is over and the spot seals over almost immediately.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bruce packs up the test tube and his stack of papers and turns to leave.  Bucky watches him go with a faint nod that Bruce meets with a smile as he opens the door.  He sees Steve waiting outside, anxiously twiddling his thumbs and walking over to meet Bruce.  As the door closes, he hears the murmured conversation.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Thank you so much for taking care of him Bruce.  There is no one I would trust more to look after Bucky.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“It’s no problem at all Steve.  There’s still a lot of damage but he’s definitely coming around.  There’s someone inside there and he’s slowly coming out.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bruce of all people would know what it feels like to have something inside and Bucky hopes that he is right about this.  That he can recover.  That he can live again.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>*****</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony Stark is all bluster and blunder when he charges into Bucky’s room one morning, trailed by a tiny beeping robot carrying a haphazardly packed box of tools in its little claws.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey Buckaroo, don’t mind me, just your friendly neighbourhood genius coming to take a look at that sexy side piece you’ve got there.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Steve enters right on his heels, breathing heavy and flustered.  “I’m so sorry Buck, I tried to get him to give you a moment but he insisted on coming imme-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tony waves him off with a dismissive hand.  “Capsicle here was trying to keep you all to himself but it’s about time the rest of us got to take a crack at the Red Menace.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bucky isn’t entirely sure what’s going on, but Steve doesn’t look afraid, just a little resigned with the experience of a man who has tried to stop a hurricane in its tracks before and failed.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Come on, Grandpa Sam here promised that I could get a crack at that beauty!  Look, Dum-E’s all ready as well!”  He gestures to the little robot that gives a corresponding beep.   Tony is positively bouncing with energy and Bucky can’t remember anyone ever being this excited to meet him.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Steve looks up skyward and counts to ten, but Tony barrels on unobstructed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah yeah, so can I look at your arm now, pretty please with a cherry on top?”  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t listen to him Buck, it’s entirely up to you.  You don’t have to say yes if you’re not comfortable with it, isn’t that right Tony?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well yes, but I’m just saying, I don’t think having a HYDRA death machine drilled into their scapula is anybody’s idea of a good time, and I could do a better job with those plate mechanisms if I were blackout drunk with a garden shovel.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Tony,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Steve warns, but eventually folds into a sigh.  “Bucky, Tony might be ...a lot but he does mean well and I’m sure that he could make you feel a bit better.  Would you be alright if he just looks at your arm?  Any time you want us to stop, just let me know and we’ll stop, no questions asked.”  Steve looks at him imploringly and Tony nods frantically behind him,</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Come on Robocop, I’m all about that enthusiastic consent!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He knows that Steve wouldn’t let anything bad happen to him, so Bucky stiffly nods and Tony positively lights up with a manic sort of glee as he rushes forward with what looks like some sort of welding tool.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t mean to, but suddenly a scared animal noise comes out from him.  The whole room freezes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tony is speechless for the first time, the soft whirring of whatever tool he has in his hand the only sound coming out from his direction.  Steve’s eyes are wide, his hands are up in a placating position, the way that you approach a wounded fox caught in a trap.  Bucky swallows down the thick lump of fear that has formed in his throat unbidden.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tony speaks up next, but this time in a soft, gentle voice that does much to ease the tension that had been creeping up his body secretly.  “Hey Buckaroo, it’s okay.  If you want me to go, I’ll go.  But I hope you’ll let me take a look at your arm for just a bit, because I can see from here that it’s hurting you, and I can make you feel better.”  The little robot gives a reassuring beep.  Bucky unfreezes himself slowly and takes a moment to breathe.  Deep in his joint, he locates the ache that has long melded itself into his bones and lets himself wonder what it would be like to not be in pain.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cautiously but surely, he moves his arm over to Tony and hears Steve suck in a breath.  He realises that this might be the first time he’s voluntarily moved a part of his body without the threat of pain in decades.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tony continues chattering on about some mindless thing while he bends over the arm, but Bucky tunes him out.  He locks eyes with Steve, and thinks that he might see pride brimming there.  He thinks he might be proud of himself too.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>*****</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The redhead is next.  She slips into his room silently and stares at him wordless from the corner of the room.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They stay like that for a few beats, the absence of words somehow not disquieting in any way.  When she finally speaks, it is a single word.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Яша.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Instantly, flashes of a sepia-toned room of mirrors come to him.  The slide of a padded foot across a lacquered floor.  The delicate arch of a dainty ballerina’s wrist.  The hidden beauty shrouded in danger.  Snatched moments of happiness in a blank life.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looks back at her and knows that she sees the recognition there.  The weight of their shared history needs no long tales to articulate, no acknowledgement of the days spent together in a twisted hell that they brought each other through, even if unknowingly at that time,</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her face softens and he sees the sharp lines of her cheekbones fade into the rounded curve of a younger girl.  There is a certain melancholy to this exchange that is comforting in its familiarity, but the spectre of sorrow that overhangs their reunion does nothing to dull the muted joy that wells up in his chest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>One final lingering look later, she turns and walks just as noiseless to the door.  With a few more hushed words that are only for the two of them, she leaves.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Rest well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>яша</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Take heart </span>
  <em>
    <span>Милый</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>*****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When Steve comes again, this time alone, it is to a different man.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bucky is still lying in that same white-sheeted bed, largely unmoving.  But now when Steve looks at him, he sees a life that was not there before running through the frame, a vigour that seems to almost lift his entire body.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s been a long time since Steve has seen his friend, a man he thought he would never touch again once their fingertips brushed </span>
  <em>
    <span>tooquicktoofaraway </span>
  </em>
  <span>on that godforsaken train.  He thought that the deep cavern in his larger body would never be filled once he lost the person that occupied half of his soul since they were little boys, but now it bubbles with hope.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A shy smile, a tentative flicker of blue eyes behind a dark curtain of hair.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hi Stevie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I hope this recovery doesn't seem too unrealistic.  It won't be all smooth sailing from here, and I hope Bucky's interactions with some of the other Avengers helps to capture some of the different facets of the new man that is growing.  As I mentioned before, this fic is really chronicling my own experiences with depression and while it still isn't gone and it's an everpresent struggle, the way I got out of it was really just waking up one day and feeling like I wanted to move.  I'm not sure if it was something that happened or just the fundamental human urge to live that got me up, but I've been up and living ever since.</p><p>I've spent the past few days just writing this and not doing any school work so I probably need to catch up on that soon and might have to break my 'one chapter a day' streak (or maybe I'll just finish this fic first since it's almost done and do school another day!) but I figure it'll probably be a short little exploration of Bucky's continuing journey with recovery.  I have 3 other fics planned and a little bit written out, so there'll definitely be more from me.  </p><p>I'm just getting into this writing thing even though I've been reading fics for years now, so at first I was just thinking "I'll just do Bucky" and then the second chapter had Steve POV and Sam made and appearance, and now other Avengers are coming in and the character tags grow with each chapter.  I hope I've done them justice!</p><p>Thank you once again to everyone who has kudosed or commented on this fic, it fills me with such happiness and courage to write more.  I don't think I can convey how much everyone reading my writing means to me but I hope this fic has also brought some light to someone's life.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. so much of life ahead</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>It's not always easy.  But Bucky gets better.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Chapter title taken from "We've Only Just Begun" by the Carpenters, a song that just embodies the shy, uncertain hope that Bucky has going in to this new phase of his life.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>When he was a little boy, there was a cat that would hang around the fire escape outside his window. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was a mangy little thing, all matted grey fur and angry hissing.  He would try to pet it but every time he approached the creature, it would arch up in a hostile pose, yellow eyes narrowing in suspicion.  If he got too close, it would yowl out a vicious warning, giving a quick swipe for good measure.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Still, he would try to leave some leftovers swiped from that night’s dinner and come morning, they were always gone, licked clean.  Of course, it could have been the birds, but he liked to think that it was his little neighbour.  They never quite progressed from that brief interaction, a wall of distrust always separating them, but still the cat would loiter around the metal structure and he would always try to leave a little dish of food on the floor, up until the cat suddenly disappeared one day and never returned.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hadn’t thought about that little cat in years, but now he wonders if it had wanted desperately to be loved, but just didn’t know how.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>*****</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes he still sleeps for days on end, trapped in a fugue of memories burying him so deep it takes what seems like years to claw himself out.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But he always gets up, sometimes a little unsteady as he learns to use his muscles again, but he always sees the sun again.  When Steve smiles at him, he knows that everything will be alright.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>*****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he shakes himself out of his latest deep sleep, Steve is there.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He shoots him a bright smile before looking back down to the sketch pad perched on his lap.  It is not a dismissal, just Steve giving him the time and space to wake up fully on his own.  It’s often disorienting, the sheer amount of stimulation coming at him after a stretch of blankness is rather overwhelming.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he’s finally ready to face the world after stretching his stiff joints, wiggling his toes and blinking molasses from his eyes, he looks over at Steve still hunched over his latest drawing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Morning Stevie,” he says shyly.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey Buck,” Steve returns easily, and for a moment he is transported to Brooklyn in the 1930s, to a cozy but cramped apartment with a bright, golden-haired man, rail thin in stature but not in spirit.  Almost as soon as it comes, it vanishes, whisked away in the light fog that wreathes the memory in gentle golden light.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His vision focuses in on Steve, who has moved to stand in front of him with a loose sheet of paper gripped tightly in his hand as though it is some precious manuscript.  At 6 feet and 2 inches, Steve somehow still manages to make his imposing figure look sheepish, a skill he must have picked up from his younger days when the opposite was true.  For someone who has spent most of his life finely attuned to every part of Steve, Bucky can easily see the signs of nervousness running through his frame.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He schools his features into a relaxed grin and asks lightly, “Whatcha got there for me pal?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Steve jolts a little as if caught off guard by the question before he stiffly moves the sheet over to Bucky.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s just a little drawing I did… I thought you might want to see a picture of–” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He stammers out in halting phrases before cutting himself off entirely.  Curiosity sufficiently piqued, Bucky reaches out and runs his eyes over the sketch.  He sees a dark haired woman with a warm, inviting smile, decked out in a neatly-pressed floral dress and a modest necklace of pearls.  Drawings cannot speak but suddenly he hears a shrill voice cry out, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“James Buchanan Barnes, you get here this instant!  No son of mine will be going off to church looking like he just rolled around in mud, and you too Steven!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s your Ma, Buck.  Dressed in her Sunday best, all ready to wrangle us off to church.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Steve’s voice is soft and Bucky feels his eyes water.  He remembers it now, a woman who was all smooth hands and tight hugs, flour dashed across her apron, bright eyes that would always gaze lovingly at the children she dedicated her life to.  His mother, who would cuff him at the back of his head for coming home after curfew again, but just as quickly as she would wipe his tears away and press kisses to newly bandaged knees.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He has just enough time to carefully set the drawing down on the table next to him before he crumples into himself, his head down and arms wrapped around his knees.  For the first time in decades, he cries like he did as a child.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Steve wraps a strong, comforting arm around him, a warm and firm presence grounding him as pain lances through his heart.  At the same time, he feels a smaller, daintier arm come to rest on his other shoulder, and he can almost feel the light fragrance of lavender that always used to trail his mother around their old house, see the light tinkling of her laugh gliding through the air, a whisper of a memory he tries desperately to hold on to.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>*****</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>One morning he wakes up to a rustling and clanging coming from above.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looks up just in time to see a brown haired head poke out from the ceiling vent.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Hawkeye.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The archer swivels around, looking quizzically at his surroundings.  “Huh, so that’s where this leads.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Only then does he seem to realise that there is someone else in the room.  “Oh, hi there.  You must be Bucky!  Steve talks a lot about you.  You haven’t met me yet because I was stuck in a prison in Belarus with a clown moonlighting as an accountant for the Russian mafia for a while, long story…” he trails off, eyes glazing over as he recalls the details of a mission Bucky doesn’t think he wants to know about, before snapping back to attention.  “Anyway, I’m Clint Barton, also known as Hawkeye.  Hey, wanna go down to the range?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Just then, a scruffy one-eyed dog holding a slice of pizza plods into the room.  “Heeey, pizza dog!  Where have you been?”  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The aforementioned pizza dog blinks slowly at Clint and sneezes, dropping the slice of pizza from its mouth.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Pepperoni</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Bucky distantly notes.  Without missing a beat, the dog bends down and picks up the slice again, scarfing it down with the technique of a dog that has eaten a lot of pizza.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bucky blinks. It takes a moment for the question to sink in amidst the oddness of the rest of the introduction, but he’s seen stranger things.  Without thinking, he nods his assent.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clint lights up.  “Great man!  You should see the stuff they have down there, state of the art set up and oh– you’ll love the moving obstacle course.  Come on!”  Smoothly, he slips out of the vent, casually doing a flip to right himself before jumping up to Bucky and hauling him onto his feet.  Somewhat dazed, Bucky lets himself be pulled up and stumbles onto uncertain feet.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s the first time he’s left his room, and he’s almost expecting a rush of something to come over him, a sudden jolt as he passes through the doorway.  Instead, there’s nothing.  The step out the room melts into the next step and the anti-climax of the moment stops him in his tracks.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clint senses that Bucky is no longer following and pauses, turning back to shoot a slightly concerned look at him.  Meanwhile, Lucky trots past irreverently, somehow having managed to secure another piece of pizza and the moment is broken.  Bucky follows along silently and lets himself just listen to Clint chatter on about the high points of archery.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The hours they spend at the range are ...fun.  He relishes in the familiar weight of a gun in his hand and shoots straight bullseyes each time.  The moving targets in the custom obstacle course are slightly more challenging, but he contorts his body and makes his shots with a steady arm and appreciates the clean shots that Clint makes from his high perch.  With each jubilant whoop Clint lets out when they take down another enemy simulation and the low whistle he makes when Bucky gets a particularly impressive shot, Bucky feels the tightness in his shoulders ease.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When they leave the range, sweat dripping from their faces and the exertion making itself known in their muscles, Clint lobs a cheerful grin at Bucky.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, had a great time!  It’s nice having someone else who can keep up with me on the range since most of the others fight close range or are all ‘pew pew look at my fancy auto-aiming repulsors!’”  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It isn’t difficult to figure out who he’s talking about.  Clint carries on, “Hit me up anytime you feel like shooting some stuff, and afterwards you can come and hang in my apartment and eat some pizza with Lucky, what do you think?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Blushing slightly at the invitation, Bucky feels a secret thrill run through him.  He gives a small smile, looking tentatively at Clint through a curtain of hair.  Lucky sneezes.  </span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>*****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He needs to find a hobby.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Clint isn’t always around to go down to the range with, Steve can’t spend his entire life stuck to Bucky (Words like “codependent” are thrown out but Bucky immediately disregards them.  It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>Steve.</span>
  </em>
  <span>) and it isn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>healthy </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be cooped up all day alone in his room staring out the window or at the clean white walls.  Or so Sam says.  Given that he counsels traumatised veterans also trying to assimilate into normal society for a living, Sam probably knows what he’s talking about.  Still, faced with the list of things suggested by the internet, Bucky is skeptical. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Bullet journaling to manage your mental health! </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>picking up a musical instrument</span>
  </em>
  <span> doesn't exactly sound promising when one has football stadiums of repressed emotions to pick through and a metal hand that is more used to punching in walls.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Steve is no help either.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, in my free time, I go running in the park, try to catch up on all the pop culture I’ve missed — remind me to tell you all about memes! — oh, and you could try drawing maybe?  I’ve got tons of pencils we can share, not like back in the day when I had to try to grip some little nub of a pencil that I had worn down to the quick already....”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Steve looks so eager to share, his eyes sparkling with thoughts of days spent frolicking through New York’s various running paths and nights spent in front of a movie screen, matching charcoal pencils clutched in the hands of thoughtful, inspired artists.  An entire childhood spent together has not made Bucky immune to Steve’s overwhelming golden retriever energy, so he just makes a non-committal grunt and resigns himself to plodding along behind Steve dressed in his too-tight shirts (Seriously.  He spent the better part of the century as a mindless HYDRA assassin and even he knows that fabric isn’t being rationed anymore and there is no reason to put dri-fit through so much strain.) at an ungodly hour of the morning.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he tells Sam about his trouble finding new hobbies to pick up, and how many activities centered around promoting a healthier lifestyle are hard for him to experience when he is unaccustomed to speaking to other people and doing things just for the sake of enjoyment, Sam decides that he might want to focus on improving his vocabulary and getting used to spending more time with other humans.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Which is how he ends up reading books titled “The Pout-Pout Fish” and playing </span>
  <em>
    <span>Words with Friends</span>
  </em>
  <span> with the Avengers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t say it, but he secretly likes the simple pictures and being able to call some people ‘friends’.  (He also likes beating Tony with a series of triple word scores, and sometimes he can hear the angry shouting going all the way up to his room.)</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>*****</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It isn’t always easy to speak.  Sometimes he feels the words get caught in his throat and his heart pounds out senseless messages that glue his tongue to the top of his mouth.  On those days he goes and finds Natasha.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Usually he can find her at the gym, watches the sinewy muscles of her strong legs slam into punching bags and the lethal glint in her eye.  He goes to join her and they both enjoy the peace in the silence, punctured only by the steady sound of fists pounding against the bags and the rhythmic huffs of their breaths.  Afterwards, they cool down together on smooth black exercise mats and sometimes she brings down her bag of knives for them.  Together, they sharpen the blades in an act that has long since become automatic to them, and they sit wordlessly in a quiet that envelops them with a pleasing sense of comfort.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Other times, she is at the ballet studio that Tony specially outfitted in the tower for her once he found out that she was trained rigorously in it.  She doesn’t often go there, too haunted by eerie melodies played in the Red Room echoing in her ears, but sometimes she feels an irresistible pull on her body there to go through the motions that were drilled into a young girl.  Whenever he manages to catch her there, he watches her dance with a breathless appreciation.  There is a delicate grace in her movements, sharp twists and arching wrists, that translate readily to her seamless fighting style, but it is a whole other experience to watch her outside the bounds of battle.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This time however, she is in none of these places.  He checks the gym and the ballet studio and when he finds them both empty, he knows that there is only one other place she will be. He has always shied away from it, worrying that it would be too intimate of a setting to find her in, but she has always told him that he is welcome to find her in her apartment.  Ultimately, he supposes with a wry smile to himself, shared history of torture and brainwashing doesn’t leave much room for privacy or boundaries.  Steeling himself, he punches in the button for her floor and walks to the sleek, minimalist door.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When she sees him standing at the doorway, she quirks a smile at him and pats the space next to her invitingly.  Obediently, he walks over and sinks into the plush couch.  She is dressed in some warm, fleecy material with dancing giraffes across the top and singing dolphins lining her flowy cotton shorts.  Her hair is down in soft curls, framing her sharp green eyes with sweetness.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It isn’t often that he gets to see her out of her black military catsuit, all sharp angles and lethal looks, and so it is a privilege he cherishes to be allowed in her space, vulnerabilities laid bare for him to see.  In turn, he sheds his armour at the door, melting into her lap in a reversal of the roles they played back when they were a hardened, empty machine and a shattered, honed child seeking innocent comfort from each other however they knew to.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He lets her soft voice singing Russian lullabies wash over him as he falls asleep, her thin fingers carding gently through his hair.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Спи, дитя мое родное,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>       Баюшки-баю...</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(sleep now, my dear little child...)</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>*****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It takes a while for it to happen, where all the Avengers are in the tower at the same time, released from their earth-protecting duties and back from whatever far-flung country they were undercover in.  The oft talked about Avengers Movie Night.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Anything that has Tony Stark as the host is bound to be an event, and Bucky’s first foray into group interaction does not disappoint. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Trailing Steve like a lost puppy with a fluffy blanket wrapped in his arms, his eyes dart around the room uncertainly.  He sees Clint and Natasha already bundled up on a loveseat, talking to each other in hushed tones.  Sam walks in from the other entrance, balancing a bowl of popcorn in one arm and raising the other in a greeting to the two of them.  Steve waves back excitedly while Bucky gives a brief nod in acknowledgement.  Bruce slinks in after him, looking slightly as though a bomb is about to go off at any time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As both a nuclear physicist and the most sensible person in the room, Bruce’s trepidation should have given Bucky a bit more of a hint as to what was to come.  Still, nothing could have fully prepared Bucky for when Tony launches himself into the room complete with fanfare piped over the sound system, wearing his trademark sunglasses despite the late hour and dressed in the gaudiest pair of pyjamas Bucky has come across in his many forays into the joys of online shopping, especially for comfy sleepwear (His own sloth printed cotton set is the product of many hours of meticulous research).  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Welcome lady and gentlemen, one and all, to the Manchurian Candidate’s first ever Avengers Movie Night!  I have prepared a varied selection of snacks and beverages to last us deep into the night and personally selected the lineup for tonight’s viewing.  Everyone, please enjoy.”  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Complete with a deep bow, Tony spins off with a dramatic flourish and plops down onto one of the couches, grabbing a bowl of pretzels and whipping off his sunglasses along the way.  Steve just sighs deeply, walking over to one of the remaining sofas with a bewildered Bucky in tow.  Bruce reddens with secondhand embarrassment, rubbing his temples as he sits carefully on a nearby recliner.  It just goes to show that even with prolonged exposure, one never truly gets used to Tony Stark.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“JARVIS, please introduce the selection for tonight.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If it is possible for an AI to sound resigned, JARVIS most certainly lets out a deep sigh.  “Sir has first chosen the 2010 M. Night Shyamalan production of “The Last Airbender” to begin the night, followed by a showing of the film “Assassins Run” which was released in–”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“TONY!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Instantly, a cacophony of objections sounds.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tony sits up defensively.  “What!  The Last Airbender is perfect since we have not one but two popsicles here tonight, and it even features a skinny kid who looks just like Steve did!  And Assassins Run is a classic!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At the several death glares directed his way, he sighs.  “Fine, fine.  I admit it was all a joke, and some of those films might not have been in the best taste.  Instead, because after getting to know Bucky Boo Bear a bit better, I’ve realised that the hard metal exterior is only on the outside — literally, you know, since he has a metal arm and all </span>
  <em>
    <span>(“Yes Tony, we get it”) </span>
  </em>
  <span>— but on the inside, he’s a soft fluffy marshmallow, so we’ll be doing a cute Disney animal film marathon tonight!”  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With no further words, the lights dim and the opening sounds of “Lady and the Tramp” play. Bucky is grateful for the sudden darkness, because it hides the bright red painting his cheeks.  He can feel Steve shooting a knowing smile at him and just hunkers down into his blanket with a slight pout.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After the first film ends and they transition into “101 Dalmatians”, Bucky finds himself moving closer to Steve’s warmth unconsciously.  Steve’s hand comes instinctively up to wrap around him.  Tucked firmly in Steve’s arms, he burrows deeper, wrapped tightly in a soft blanket.   </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bucky’s first Avengers Movie Night is a resounding success.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bruce introduces him to gardening.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He stands stiffly in a corner, fingers wrapped unnaturally around a garden spade with a grip more suited to a dagger than a simple digging tool.  Across the room, Bruce beckons calmly from where he is bent over a plot of soil, his straw sunhat obscuring part of his face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bucky marches over like a man on death row walking to the executioner’s chamber.  He crouches down, staring intently at the dirt as if it would tell him what to do.  Bruce is kind enough not to mention Bucky’s obvious discomfort, and launches into a detailed explanation about the steps to transplanting young seedlings into a bigger space.  Bucky listens as if he’s receiving a mission briefing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Still, when Bruce gently places a small plant along with a handful of soil into Bucky’s cupped hands, his mind goes blank.  He knows that he’s supposed to just move the seedling over and place it into the already prepared holes, but he stares transfixed at the little life in his hands.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s not a big deal, a small plant with just two leaves crowning the top of a flimsy stem, but it is still a life cradled in hands that have brought so much destruction.  Darkly, he thinks to himself that it is laughable to believe that these hands that are so suited to killing, to tearing families apart, to wreaking havoc at the beck and call of those on the other end of his leash could possibly handle something as delicate as this.  A wave of self-loathing and disgust wells up and threatens to overwhelm him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bruce sees his trembling hands and moves slowly over to him.  “You can do this, you know?  I know what it’s like to feel like you’re a monster, to think that the only thing you can ever do is destroy.  But that’s not true, and even if you need to tell yourself over and over, one day you’ll learn that that’s not true.  With these hands, you can protect, and you can help to give life.  It may seem like a lot at first, but right now, all you need to do is place the plant down and let it grow.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At his words, the piercing feeling in his chest ebbs.  He cradles the plant in trembling hands, the tender green leaves swaying slightly in the wind.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Whispering a silent wish, he looks at the young plant dwarfed by two weathered hands, one flesh, one metal.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>Grow.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(he’s not sure if he was talking only about the plant.)</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>*****</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was a bad night.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He woke up with a tortured shout, palms wet from sweat or something else.  Shaking, he pulls himself out of bed, untangling himself from the constricting covers.  It’s still early, but there’s no way that he can go back to sleep, not when the shadows might still hold demons he doesn’t want to confront yet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Moving silently through the apartment, he glides through silently to the balcony, making no noise to disrupt the calm of the early morning.  The breath of fresh air that hits him is just what he needs.  He exhales heavily, body shuddering with the effort and chest still beating with the stress from a nightmare or memory.  The world is still covered in darkness, the earth having not yet completed its orbit.  Still, the peace of the moment is a welcome respite from the twisted figures that haunt his sleep.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s not sure how much time passes, but he snaps to awareness when he hears the balcony door slide open again.  A sleepy Steve with tousled hair comes walking out, one hand rubbing his eye and the other coming up late to cover a yawn.  He moves to stand next to Bucky.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Bad dream?” He says knowingly.  Bucky just gives a sharp nod.  He doesn’t need to explain the problems of troubled sleep to Steve, who has his fair share of regrets that come to torment him at night.  They stand in silence for a bit, no words needed to create the comfortable atmosphere that blankets them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He closes his eyes as he feels the first rays hit his face.  He breathes in deeply and feels the cool air of the morning fill his lungs.  He holds it there for a moment, letting himself feel the strong beat of his heart and feel the slight breeze dance across his skin, setting his nerves alive.  He exhales and feels the tension leave his body as he slowly opens his eyes again.  The world is bathed in all shades of yellow and red.  He sees the sunrise in all its glory and he thinks to himself, </span>
  <em>
    <span>yeah, I’m going to be okay.</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>"It's going to be a short chapter, just a nice little round up to end off the story." </p><p>"Why did you say it would be 4 chapters?  We could have nicely ended this at 3."</p><p>"Ugh, it's so difficult writing the other Avengers.  I think 2 characters in a scene is my max."</p><p>All of the things I said to myself before pumping out this 4 thousand word piece.  In truth, I have several other story ideas lined up that I was really eager to get started on, but I had this 4th chapter that I needed to get through first because I didn't really want to leave it unfinished when I was so close to the end.  I was not that enthusiastic about writing it, but when I starting putting words down, it just kept expanding on to include so many more scenes that I had initially planned, and I'm actually really proud of how this turned out.</p><p>As usual, it's quite personal to me because I'm really writing my recovery path into this and a lot of the little milestones that Bucky hits might not seem like much, but mean a great deal to me.  I hope this also gives others going through some tough times some hope and direction to get out of whatever pit they're stuck in at the moment.</p><p>Once again, I greatly appreciate all the people who have given a kudos or comment!  It's been really encouraging to see the response to this fic even though the numbers might seem like nothing to someone with thousands of kudos and hundreds of comments.  I've been incredibly inspired to write more and as mentioned, I have TONS of stories lined up that I will be writing very soon though I probably need to balance this sudden new hobby with school so stay tuned!  Give all the songs that I cite as my chapter title inspirations a listen, because I take quite a lot of care in selecting them and they all encapsulate the mood and atmosphere of the chapter.  The Carpenters are an old favourite of mine because I think Karen Carpenter has the sweetest, most tender voice and the lyric in particular that I chose ("so much of life ahead") is something that has kept me going in some dark times.</p><p>With that, I end off this very long note and wish you happy reading!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is my very first work and so I'm not very certain if it's any good, but I just wanted to share my take on a Bucky that deals with the horrific experience that has effectively been a lifetime for him, and once he breaks out of his conditioning, doesn't respond to it with anger, by embracing his new life or explosive self-destruction behaviour, but with a catatonia stemming from crippling depression.  This mostly draws on my own experiences, because every time I think seriously about being in Bucky's shoes, I am convinced that he is the person who has suffered the most in the world and I can't imagine how hard it would be to carry on.  It makes me feel so hopeless for him because even though I see in so many wonderful fics here a viable path for recovery, I can't imagine how one would even get on that trajectory and want to recover instead of killing themselves.  I didn't feel like going down that route yet (though it's definitely something I'm interested in exploring because ...that seems like what I would do in his case but also because there is a surprising lack of suicidal bucky in this fandom!)  and my current mood is more the sort of sinking path that depression takes you on.</p><p>This is somewhat rambly and I can't believe I'm actually posting something I wrote because I've basically been a long-time lurker on this site (legitimately did not create an account until a few days ago because of anxiety about this) and this fandom so this was kind of impulsively written in an afternoon but I hope that somehow it might be something others enjoy?  And I will never be one of the greats of this fandom (check out my massive bookmarks list that I am slowly working on as I track down all the fics I love love love since I finally can bookmark them) but I hope I can at least allow someone to enjoy the same feels and squeals that some other fic authors have given me!  Kudos and comments and bookmarks etc appreciated :&gt;  though I fully understand if you just want to lurk which is what I did for years haha :b</p><p>I'm not very sure if I'm going to update this because as mentioned, this is the first thing I've ever written!  and I'm not that comfortable writing but if inspiration hits and people like it maybe I will start writing down the dreams and vague thoughts I have whenever I'm preoccupied with this ^-^</p></blockquote></div></div>
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